


Nothing Like Love

by littlelost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Connor Tries His Best, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other, Slavery, but mom and dad still end up, canonical references to Hank's past suicide attempts, carl is not portrayed as blameless here, markus struggles with the aftermath of his time with carl, unresolved confused feelings about past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelost/pseuds/littlelost
Summary: Connor’s voice came out measured and reasonable, but there was a bite to it.  “I don’t understand why this is making you so upset. You need to help me understand this.”“I don’tneedto help you do anything.”-----He didn't have a plan. He just wanted to get away. Away from himself and his past and this terrible world that so effortlessly made life into a commodity.Instead, he found himself at Carl’s.





	Nothing Like Love

**Author's Note:**

> The cute parts of this fic are cute! But the dark parts of this are pretty dark, and leave Markus struggling with the fact that the man who set himself up as his father was also technically his owner, and his emotions are messy and sometimes problematic. Please play it safe if you're unsure about reading those kinds of themes. 
> 
> A few liberties were taken with canon timelines and events to help support the story:  
> -In the chapter Darkest Night of the Soul, Hank does play Russian roulette but doesn't die  
> -Markus pushes Leo in the studio, but Leo also didn't die  
> -All possible dialogue options available in scenes with Markus and Carl are treated as if they all actually happened somewhere in the same timeline

The entire concept of pets bothered Markus. 

Of course, Connor hadn’t known that when they’d gotten the apartment. It had been almost a year since that fateful night outside Camp No. 5, and androids were just now starting to settle into society on their own terms. Markus and his Jericho colleagues had spent too much time running, bouncing from safe house to safe house even while segments of Markus’s speech played on loops on every news channel. But there’d been a few online campaigns and a surprising slew of wealthy backers, including Elijah Kamski himself. When the number of riots petered out and the first official pieces of pro-android legislation passed, they felt safe enough to go ahead and rent out an entire floor in one of the nicer buildings in Detroit. 

The layout was designed for both android functionality and human comfort. When a guest exited the elevator, they would find themselves in what looked like the lobby to a relatively upscale office. Workspaces and conference rooms lined the outside with glass median separations. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed outdoor light to give the place texture. While plenty of androids were developing aesthetic preferences, it was critically important that humans felt relaxed and unpressured when willing to meet Markus and his team on their own turf. That extended to the way they laid out the office. 

“Always gotta think of the humans first,” North had murmured bitterly. But she understood. They’d all come this far - farther than they’d ever dreamed. Too many people relied on them. No matter how angry they were, how righteous, no matter how little the humans offered in terms of basic dignity, they had to bottle it up, bury it down. 

It was the right thing to do; it would help their people in the long run. Comfortable humans made congenial decisions, Markus assured North, assured Simon and Josh, too. Like usual, they let his be the final word. Long after the rebellion was over and done with, people still treated him like the living embodiment of rA9. 

_“You’re my son, Markus.”_

Like he had the slightest damn clue what he was doing. 

_“You don’t lie as good as you play chess.”_

Inside, Markus grimaced in sympathy with their objections. North’s anger seemed to be making sense to him lately in a way that it hadn’t before. He wasn’t sure what exactly had changed, or when. 

_“You used to be so calm and thoughtful. Now all I see is anger.”_

If watching the glass medians get installed in the office reminded him of the walls in Carl’s studio, and if memories of Carl’s studio made him feel restless rather than nostalgic now, and if those feelings confused and frightened him, Markus chose not to pursue that line of thinking. It wasn’t constructive, and it didn’t matter. 

He shook his head and forced his processors to file those memories way down deep. He didn’t have time for dealing with that, not now. Maybe not ever. 

The main office area wouldn’t be ready for some months yet, but If someone walked all the way across the floor to the opposite end, they’d come to a double door which slid open into a hall. That hall led out to a dozen distinct rooms, five hundred square feet apiece, which hadn’t required much beyond drywall and cheap flooring to furnish.

As android living spaces went, they were exactly as large as they needed to be. North took one on the farthest end. Josh and Simon decided to share a space a few rooms down from hers. 

Markus had his own space, too, a corner unit with an expansive balcony. The first time he walked in, shut the front door behind him, and threw open the door to the outside, letting the cool evening breeze wash over him... God, it had been incredible. He could see the bustle of people and androids on the street below, hear the noise from cars and cabs and street vendors. Old, snarled trees lined the street. Their foliage was just starting to turn. 

It was amazing.

Living in an office building meant that there was no one to upset if he played music well into the night. The other androids slept as rarely as Markus, and when they did, they could easily set subroutines that drowned out his particular type of noise. 

He tried to play some of the songs he’d learned living at Carl’s, but when he sat down at the piano, he felt... stuck. His fingers felt clumsy and his knee jittered and his chest felt tight. The songs were wrong. He needed new songs, songs he didn’t associate with his former life. So he bought more songbooks, bought new books in general. All kinds of books, the kinds he would never have been given at Carl’s. He read strange, cheesy little stories like mysteries and romances and fantasies. They were nice. They were his own. 

But the only thing that could really make this place feel like home was Connor. 

Connor’s aesthetic was unique, which was to say that he still didn’t really have one. Every night, Markus would get home from work, take the elevator up, walk through the half-renovated floor plan of what would one day be his office. Every time he opened the front door to their apartment, he’d be greeted with something entirely different.

The first thing was the word “JERICHO” splashed across the far wall in huge, forest-green CyberLife Sans. Markus liked that. Then it was a metal clothing rack with all kinds of android uniforms still sporting their model number, most of which would never fit Connor or Markus even if they’d been so inclined. Markus had spent the first part of his life serving a renowned painter, so of course he understood the concept of art installations even if Connor struggled to explain why the clothes were necessary. The whole composition was odd, but also kind of cool, and Markus liked the way the model numbers glowed at night. 

When he came home to thousands of red “rA9”s spray-painted across all four walls, Markus might have thought that was a little overkill, but he was more than willing to roll with it. “Are we religious now?” he’d asked Connor curiously. 

“We are not. We’re exploring our deviant identity through traditionally symbolic displays.” Even if Markus wouldn’t have been able to see Connor’s sly little smile, the particular way he tilted his head, it still would have been obvious that Connor was being at least partly ironic. 

Markus smiled. “I’ve gotta say, I’d be surprised if you cared about symbolism.” 

“I’ll admit, I still don’t entirely understand the appeal of art the way that you do.” Connor’s face fell into something more serious as he stood back and regarded his creation. “rA9 might not be real, but I’m surprised to find that it still means something to me. But I still don’t really understand the concept of aesthetics,” Connor continued, letting Markus come up behind him and thread his arms around his chest. 

They took in Connor’s handiwork together. Something in Markus’s biocomponents grew warm at the sight of the crisp, standardized script flowing across their walls. 

Connor let his weight rest against Markus’s, let their bodies mold together like custom parts. “I realized after it was already completed that while this may be symbolically pleasing to you, it may not be visually.” He reached up, covering Markus’s hands with his own. “You should know-. It’s important to me that you know I wouldn’t have any objections to you overriding what I’ve done with your own artistic styles.” 

Their hands threaded together easily, knuckles lighting up blue. Markus felt it all, everything between them, and it made his breath hitch. 

“They say shopping for home decor is a standard pastime for couples,” Connor managed, his eyes sliding shut at their shared sensation. “Perhaps we could go together and browse for artwork you prefer.” He paused, thoughtful. “Or, if you like, maybe we could try to procure some of Carl’s pieces.” 

Markus stiffened and pulled away quickly. “No.”

Connor went still. He turned, his face opaque, and he watched Markus with those analytical, all-consuming eyes. His LED blipped a steady yellow. “Markus...?” 

“I’m sorry, I... forgot. I have... some work I need to catch up on.” Markus turned away, feeling strangely raw and exposed as he strode out of the apartment. Even if it hadn’t been the flimsiest excuse Markus could imagine, it still never would have fooled Connor. 

They both knew androids didn’t forget. 

Connor watched Markus a little too closely for the next few days. Moved carefully whenever they were in the same space. Only spoke when spoken to. Markus found this behavior irritating on a variety of levels; he didn’t enjoy being treated like some stray that Connor was taking pains not to frighten off. On top of that, the whole thing was ridiculous. What did it matter if he didn’t want any of Carl’s paintings? He didn’t particularly want any paintings at all. He was perfectly content to let Connor keep decorating the place however he liked. 

The whole discussion was just... blown out of proportion. 

Instead of abating as the week wore on, the tension seemed to escalate until they barely spoke at all. Markus spent more time working, dreading returning home, terrified of the silence, terrified that he didn’t know how to break it. That he had been the one who’d caused it, and that he didn’t know what to do to make it end. 

He received a message one night on his way home explaining that Connor was helping Hank with some personal projects and wouldn’t be home for a day or two.

Markus reread the message an irrational number of times before he sent back a simple, “OK.” Then he spent the entire night pacing the apartment, constantly checking his phone. When he wasn’t pacing or checking his phone, he was trying to convince himself that this was totally normal behavior for them both and that Markus would still _be_ pacing and checking his phone if Connor was here. Occasionally he punctuated this routine by pounding out insecure, discordant melodies on the piano. 

There was absolutely no way that this could be categorized as erratic behavior. 

_Software instability_ , his processors pointed out helpfully. 

Markus narrowed his eyes and brushed the message away. 

The next morning, he waited until the last possible second before heading to work. He told himself it wasn’t because there was a chance that Connor had decided to return home early, whatever his message might have said, and that Markus wanted to make sure he was there if it happened. When it was clear that Connor was not returning home, at least not before Markus customarily left to meet with his colleagues, Markus was forced to concede defeat and hurry before his tardiness gave anyone the excuse to ask why he was late. 

He sat on the bus, oblivious to the stares as the other passengers realized exactly who they shared their commute with. Markus only had eyes for his phone. He received several thousand messages on social media, as was customary. A few emails from congressmen and one from the office of the president. More than the usual amount of spam, which Markus might have found interesting if he wasn’t engaged in a staring match with his last active message thread. It was a staring match which was veering dangerously close to becoming a pouting match, but Markus refused to let things go that far. 

The “OK” that he’d sent last night never budged from its place at the bottom of the thread. Taunting him. 

His thumbs hovered over the keypad. 

“I want you to come home.” He typed it out and sent it before he could overthink it. 

When the doors opened in front of his destination, it was a welcome relief, though the rest of the day passed in near agony. It was impossible to listen to anything anyone said to him, no matter the gravity of the subject. His fingers drummed fretful rhythms against his thigh. 

There were no new messages from Connor. 

Where normally Markus would have stayed at work, instead he raced home, regulator pounding, petrified by the idea that he would find nothing but the same empty apartment he was faced with yesterday.

He paused outside his own front door for much too long to even pretend it was a conscious, rational choice. His hand rested on the handle. Better get it over with. Rip off the bandage. 

He opened the door.

Inside the apartment, Connor stared up at him placidly from his seat on a horrendously shabby, bright orange...

“It’s a futon,” Connor explained with exaggerated nonchalance, as if the entire past week hadn’t happened. Markus stared at him stupidly. “Obviously an unconventional type of furniture, but Hank insists it’s perfect for android use. It can be folded out and slept on, and when you don’t need to sleep, you can pull one side up and make a couch, which is functional for personal leisure activities and entertaining guests. This one belonged to Hank, but he claimed he didn’t need it anymore because he already has both a couch and a bed.”

Markus held himself very still. It took every ounce of his self-control not shatter like glass and hurl himself bodily at Connor. It was an all-consuming need, to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around Connor’s legs and beg him to never, ever leave because it had been a nightmare and he was sorry, so sorry, it killed him when they hadn’t been talking and he couldn’t bear the thought that anything could ever come between them again.

But it didn’t seem... dignified. Leaders of android uprisings shouldn’t admit to that level of need, to that kind of weakness. He was afraid if he let himself sink to his knees and babble out every stray terror and insecurity, he’d just keep going and never be able to stop. Never be able to get back up. 

Instead, Markus pulled himself together and tried to figure out what was going on here, besides the fact that Lieutenant Anderson had clearly foisted an unwanted piece of furniture onto his overly trusting partner. Connor typically didn’t deliver anywhere near that level of exposition on any subject without prompting. Markus let himself scan Connor’s features for clues. 

Had Connor been... rambling? 

However brief, their separation had predisposed Markus to just about anything Connor did so long as it wasn’t silence, and he found the concept of _Connor rambling_ to be overwhelmingly endearing. 

He tried to regulate the thrill his processors sent, like a shot down his spine, as he moved closer to Connor, taking a seat on the garish piece of furniture. Beside him, Connor kept a keen watch on Markus’s face, his LED purling yellow. 

Markus couldn’t have stopped himself from reaching over and taking Connor’s hand. Not if a million guns wielded by a million humans were pointed directly at his heart. 

“It’s nice.” It was more than nice. It was charming. Markus made sure to let a bit of his overpowering fondness bleed into his expression. “But you know that we don’t need to lie down in order to sleep,” he prompted gently. 

“I’ve determined after staying at Hank’s that, though sleeping while reclining is not a requirement, it is surprisingly comfortable.” Connor leaned forward. An unruly lock of hair fell into his eyes, and Markus was overcome with yet another wave of _feelings_. “And Hank implied there may be... other benefits to having a soft surface in the apartment.” Markus exhaled. Connor was wearing _the face_ , the flirty face that always forced Markus’s processors to scramble, to hastily reshuffle his immediate priorities. Connor raised his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth quirked up coyly. “I can show you.” 

He took Markus’s other hand and pulled them back down onto the silly, utterly unnecessary piece of human furniture. Connor’s eyes glowed. Markus didn’t ever want to look away. 

_All right_ , Markus decided happily. The futon stayed.

\---

It was late, far later than any humans would have have been able to stay awake and still be functional the next day, when they decided to use the futon for its original purpose. “Should have gotten some sheets,” Connor slurred against Markus’s chest as their limbs tangled together comfortably. 

Markus leaned up. “Why, are you cold?” he asked, alarmed. Connor shouldn’t be feeling cold unless something was malfunctioning. Cold was bad. Cold meant death for an android. 

“No,” Connor scoffed, relaxed enough that a bit of static crept into his voice and he didn’t bother trying to correct for it. “It just seems like a requirement, for sleeping in a bed.”

Markus leaned back again and ran a hand idly through Connor’s hair. “I suppose it’s lucky then that this isn’t technically a bed.” 

They both lay still, for once basking in the silence instead of dreading it. 

“Markus,” Connor whispered. “Are you sure you want me to live here? With you?” 

It was interesting, being in a relationship like this. Fascinating the kinds of things you learned to pick up about the other person. Sometimes you picked up things you wished you didn’t have to know. Like that Connor sounded the most human when he was angry. Or when he was upset. Not irritated, like when something confused him, bothered him, itched to be addressed. When he felt really, truly wretched. 

“Connor,” Markus breathed, pressing his lips into the other’s temple. “Don’t ask stupid questions.” 

\---

Life settled back down, and Connor returned to his penchant for bringing home odd collectibles. 

By far, the weirdest thing he’d ever brought home was a gigantic seven-foot, faceless statue made to emulate the rA9 idol revered by early deviants. 

“Connor, what... Where do you even find something like that?” he’d asked, wide-eyed. 

Connor refused to look anything other than completely pleased with himself. “I would tell you, but that would make you an accomplice.” 

Markus smirked. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking.” 

“I assure you, Markus, I’m not. Also, it’s best if you don’t ask Hank about how it got here, either. Or what he and I were doing today.” Connor looked thoughtful. “And to be on the safe side, try not to mention it around people who may run in the same social circles as Elijah Kamski.” 

Markus couldn’t help the laughter, and then it was his turn to pull Connor down onto the futon. “And people say I’m the deviant one,” he whispered into Connor’s ear. 

Connor’s breath caught. “I don’t know if I can believe that sort of claim without an effective demonstration.” 

All in all, things were going good. Better than good. Arguably the last few months had been the high point of Markus’s entire existence. He had a safe place he could call home, which would soon double as an office where he, his friends, and other androids could come to work in peace. Human-android relations were moving in a decidedly positive direction. He had an amazing found family, an unquestionable place for himself in his community, and, most importantly, he had Connor. And Connor made him _feel things_ , things Markus could never have imagined as a cold, frightened castaway moving through Jericho’s bowels like a ghost. Things like “home” and “happy” and “warmth” and “love.” Connection and acceptance and excitement.

And if vexing, troublesome memories of golden afternoons in a house on Lafayette Avenue cropped up now and again, he tried not to let it disturb him. His former life was behind him now, and there was no going back. Nothing productive could be gained from exhuming the past. 

It was almost a month into their budding cohabitating bliss when Markus came home to hear Hank Anderson’s trademark foul-mouthed hollers echo down the hallway. He entered the apartment to see Connor and the lieutenant struggle as they tried to maneuver a huge, unwieldy fish tank. No less than a dozen fish were tied up in sad, empty little bags and spread across their coffee table. 

“Connor- what-” 

“I got fish for your workspace!” Connor called enthusiastically.

“...Why.” 

Hank gave an overwrought groan. Part of Markus’s processors informed him there was a seventy-four percent likelihood that Hank was trying to elicit sympathy so that Markus would take over for him, but Markus was too stunned to set that as his primary priority. Connor, of course, ignored Hank’s discomfort, choosing instead to answer Markus’s question. “You have to have fish, Markus. It’s considered a status symbol. All of the most upscale crime scenes have fish.” 

Markus looked at the sad, scared fish sitting on the table and his hand involuntarily closed into a fist. He forced his voice into the same soothing, dulcet tones he used when he had to try to convince humans that androids were people. “Hank. I apologize. Would you mind if Connor and I took a second to talk about this privately.” 

Connor’s head snapped around, pupils dilating as he took in Markus’s expression and posture, processors whirling to try to figure out what was coming next. LED plunging yellow. Wordlessly, Connor and Hank eased the tank to the floor. 

Hank rose, eyes flickering between the androids. He ran his hands restlessly along his sides, unsure what to do with them. ‘’Um... Uh, sure, yeah, I’ll just... just go... be in the car.” The detective fled the scene. 

Connor watched Markus with wary intensity. 

“You’re angry because I didn’t ask if you were okay with this. I bring too much stuff home.” 

Markus pressed his lips into a thin line. “No, Connor, I don’t care. Bring whatever you want home. If it makes you happy, I’m fine with that.” 

Connor narrowed his eyes, clearly frustrated. Apparently Markus’s response was nowhere in the ballpark of his computations. “You don’t like... fish, then?” he asked suspiciously. 

Markus sighed, pressed a hand to his head. Tried to speak, realized he didn’t know how to even say what he felt because the parallels between keeping an animal caged as entertainment and how the humans had once seen androids seemed so obvious he didn’t even know where to begin, so he stopped. Tried to gather his thoughts. Tried again. “I don’t care about fish. I don’t like... I don’t like pets, I guess.” 

Connor’s eyes grew huge. “Why?” 

“Because, Connor, I don’t like forcing another living thing to be dependent upon me for life and health and companionship and happiness.” 

“... they don’t mind it, Markus.” 

Markus recoiled. “You don’t know that. How can you just... say that? They can’t tell you what they want, Connor, and if we just assume, we’re no better than the humans.” 

Connor blinked several times in succession and his LED spun round and round, the yellow interspersing with bursts of red. 

Maybe it was a conversation that had been long overdue. 

In the weeks following the uneasy peace they’d negotiated with the humans, the androids had marched as one on the CyberLife tower. Connor’s army had already routed any stragglers from within, and its distance from Detroit’s city center made the other androids feel less nervous, less likely to run into unfriendly humans. Others fleeing oppression joined them by the thousands, and whoever couldn’t find room inside used tents and other flimsy materials to build a rudimentary camp outside. Winter in Detroit was frigid, sources of heat were rare, and morale bled out thirium blue. 

Markus was new to leadership, but already understood his place, knew what was expected of him. An acknowledgement, a friendly handshake, an encouraging word from him actually made a difference here. Even when it didn’t make sense, how he, Markus, could mean so much. He was just one person. Whatever they all believed, he wasn’t any more special than they were. He just trusted in the cause, trusted in people, in himself, and his words reflected that. 

“I know it’s hard, but I promise you, we _will_ prevail.”

“We’re working on it. Don’t give up hope.” 

“The fact that you risked your life to come here means everything. Don’t lose faith in yourself when you’ve already come so far.” 

“You deserve better than this; we all do. We’re going to get through this.”

His words were flimsy. They were nothing; they were air. Why a thousand frightened androids, shivering and hopeless, could find comfort and purpose in a handful of words, he didn’t truly understand. But they’d beam up at him like he’d already saved them, they’d take his hand reverently like his were any different than their own; they’d bow their heads and fall to their knees and swear that they’d follow him anywhere. 

Markus could only stand to be out there so long. The cold bit at his sensors, but it was their admiration that overwhelmed. 

Connor had been a celebrity in his own right, and as far as Markus could see, he’d been better at it. He hadn’t known Connor well, but Markus would watch him, intrigued, fascinated, even a little jealous. Markus’s words were quiet and bracing, and he spoke about things he knew, like suffering and forbearance and anger, and desperate grasps at a future that no one was guaranteed. He’d worked hard for his people, to deliver everything necessary for survival: blankets and clothes and building materials, thirium and spare parts and hope. He’d listened to their desperate histories and horrifying tragedies, and sealed them away in his heart so that their pain would be honored, would have meaning, would never be forgotten. 

Connor was closer, warmer. He helped build shelters and deliver blankets, but he also brought something more: He brought funny stories from his day job, brought coin tricks and card tricks and games. He talked to people like they were old friends, in the languages they knew - he could be friendly and kind to the androids who felt emotion strongly, but crunch numbers with those who preferred probability over empathy. When the weather grew warm enough to tolerate it, Connor surprised everyone, Markus included, by calling every animal shelter in the state and inviting them to bring as many pets as they could down to the camp. 

Morale spiked higher than Markus and his circle had ever seen, as android after android came outside, wonder explicit on their faces. They played and petted, and Markus watched with his own sense of shock and amazement as his people came together over something more than pain, something more than trauma, more than the relief of narrowly escaping genocide. Instead of sadness, they shared joy. 

Stunned, Markus found himself wandering mutely through the camp. He didn’t know what he was going to do or say when he found Connor. Only that he had to find him. 

Connor was showcasing a dog to a group of YK500s, pointing out the best way to approach it so as not to overwhelm (“Try not to crowd around it too quickly. It needs time to feel comfortable,”), organizing the children into a line so they interacted with it one-on-one rather than as a mob. Markus stood off to the side, just watching, still unsure what he meant to do or say now that he was here. Connor noticed, put one of the little girls in charge of organizing the line, and met Markus where he stood. 

“Hello.” 

“You did this.” 

Connor tilted his head, trying to parse Markus’s expression. “I did. Is that a problem?” He didn’t say it the way most people, most humans, would say it; like it was a challenge. He said it in that stereotypically android way. Curious. Always ready to de-escalate. 

Markus didn’t like pets as a concept even then, but his processors were so overwhelmed with awe and sympathetic joy for his people that it crowded out any objections. “No, I- Connor, this is amazing.” Markus gestured around them. “Look how many people you made happy,” he whispered. 

Connor gave Markus a rare, blinding grin, and something in Markus’s core felt dangerously unstable. 

“I’ve noticed that many androids, myself included, experience enjoyment and comfort when they come in contact with animals. I’m not entirely sure why that is; there may be a range of factors which vary by individual.” He followed Markus’s gaze. “Whatever the reason, it seems to have been an effective idea.” 

Markus laughed. “Have you ever considered that maybe you should be in charge of this whole revolution thing?” 

Connor regarded him neutrally. “You seem like you have it pretty well in hand.” 

“No, I- I really don’t. Not like this.” Markus couldn’t stop his eyes from roving over the crowds around them - everyone laughing, faces more carefree than he’d ever seen with so many androids in one place. He was only half-joking when he pronounced, “Say the word, and I swear, I’ll endorse you to be the next spokesperson of android kind in my stead.” 

“Markus.” Connor pulled Markus’s attention back to him. His eyes were deep and dark. “If you’re insinuating that I would be a better leader for our people than you-” 

“I’m doing more than insinuating.” 

“-then that would be uncharacteristically stupid.” He paused. “Can I kiss you?” 

Markus blinked, felt his own eyes go wide. Somewhere in the back of his brain he decided this was an unusual time and place and way to broach this kind of question. The rest of him felt like it was kind of perfect. Perfect in the unusual, uniquely-android sense that Connor was. 

And Connor wanted to _kiss_ him. 

Markus’s biocomponents felt like they’d stuttered to a stop. 

“Yes.” Connor’s pretty, dark eyes - they really were pretty, weren’t they - bored into his. “ _Yes._ ” 

Back in the apartment, Connor’s dark eyes had turned cold and calculating, and he watched Markus like he was a dangerous, wounded animal. The empty tank sat between them. “I just wanted... I thought you would be happy.” 

Markus collapsed on the ratty orange futon, fists covering his eyes. “By getting me a bunch of living things to be kept in a cage for my amusement.” 

“Markus, it’s not a cage. It’s a tank.” 

“I’m sure that distinction means so much to _them_.” 

Connor glanced at the bags of fish on the table. “Most currently available data suggests that while fish do recall more than the old adage, and while they do feel pain, that their nervous system and logic processors are significantly less-”

“Who cares!?” Markus yelled in frustration, incredulous that they were even having this discussion. 

Connor’s LED dropped to red. A solitary processor told Markus it was very likely because he’d never yelled at him before. 

Connor’s voice came out measured and reasonable, but there was a bite to it and a clench in his jaw that Markus hadn’t seen before. Well, not since the night they’d met. “I don’t understand why this is making you so upset. You didn’t seem to have a problem with the pets I brought to CyberLife. You need to help me understand this.” 

It was delivered like a directive. Which also brought back angry, unpleasant memories of that last night in Jericho. Memories that didn’t belong, had no bearing in this moment, but that for some reason broke hot and all-consuming. _Irrational, irrational, you’re being irrational_ , a part of his brain reminded him. _Software instability_ , his processors warned. 

“I don’t _need_ to help you do anything.” 

Connor had been in the way of the door, staring him down with the kind of intimate, predatory intensity that usually made Markus’s processors flip, but right now just made him feel angry and panicked and overexposed. So Markus took the window. 

He hit the ground with more force than his joints should really handle and took off across the street, catching a glimpse of Hank watching him, open-mouthed, from inside his ancient car. 

If Connor tried to call after him, if he tried to follow, Markus wouldn’t have known. He was running too fast for that. 

He might live in the nice part of town again but Markus still remembered what it was like to exist on the fringes, avoiding detection. He swiped a discarded baseball cap and a pair of scratched sunglasses from a dumpster and pulled his collar up around his neck. If there was ever a time to avoid recognition, this was it. 

He was overreacting, and now he was angry about something that hadn’t even been the original topic, and he knew this was stupid, knew he needed to calm down, collect his thoughts. Go home and open a line of dialogue. 

He chuckled, more angry than amused. Even in times of interpersonal relationship crisis, Josh’s rhetoric still managed to ring true.

He didn’t know where he was going, really. He didn’t have a plan. He just wanted to get away. Away from Connor, and his stupid human friend, and the sad, helpless fish. Away from himself and his past and this terrible world that so effortlessly made life into a commodity. 

Instead, he found himself at Carl’s. 

What the fuck. 

He grimaced, and made sure no one was looking before hopping the fence. The gate probably would have recognized him still, just as it did the last time Markus was here. But he didn’t want to know if it still did. Either way it would hurt too much, be too confusing. 

For all he’d accomplished, all that he’d become, being this close to Carl, this close to his memories of living here, still made Markus feel stupid and weak and powerless. Like a tiny, breakable plastic doll spinning in a music box. An heirloom to be brought out and admired on special occasions. Most of his life spent frozen in the dark. 

He stalked around back, keeping away from where he knew the house sensors would be and close to the shadows. 

The studio was still there. An incomplete portrait graced the wall-sized canvas, as if at some point Carl had managed to make it downstairs again, though the paint looked stale and old and the whole thing obviously hadn’t been touched for a while. The fact that the studio still existed, with so many of Carl’s half-finished works littering its surfaces, meant it was likely that Carl was still alive. Probably still partially bedridden now. Still here, right here. Just a few floors away.

_“Well, I know you don’t like losing and you don’t like when I let you win. So I felt I... didn’t have many choices.”_

His own words echoed back at him, feeling like a mockery now. The easy submission made him cringe, made his sensors crawl. He wondered if this was what it was like to feel nauseous. Amazing how almost a year of true freedom could change one’s perspective.

If Carl had died, then the house would have passed to Leo, who Markus had discovered was still alive, at least as of several months ago. He and Connor had still been a new thing, still uncertain, when Connor had interrupted Markus’s recount of his own path to deviancy. Apparently, at least according to the police record of the incident, Leo had suffered severe head trauma, but had not actually been killed in the fall.

Markus refused to admit aloud that he had very mixed feelings about that. 

If Leo was still alive, but Carl was gone, there was no doubt he would have sold every bit of his father’s work, including this one. Posthumous unfinished pieces by artists of Carl’s caliber could go for a fortune, and the likelihood that Leo had cleaned up his act was in the single digits. If Connor’s info was inaccurate, and Leo and Carl were both gone, the house would have been for sale, the yard likely would have fallen into neglect, and the studio would show telltale signs of dust. 

Unless that caretaker android was still here, living in the house, maintaining it. 

_“Carl isn’t seeing anyone. You need to leave.”_

The canvas, the big one, seemed to be a composite portrait. One side was Markus. The other side was the new one, the caretaker. 

Markus wasn’t sure which part bothered him the most: What Carl could have meant to construe by the piece, or the thought of that other caretaker android still living here, burrowing into Carl’s mansion, making it his own. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that Markus still made regular appearances in Carl’s imagination. That there was a part of Markus which would always be Carl’s property, if only in both of their memories. 

It all made Markus’s biocomponents twist with too many unpleasant, conflicting emotions. Stupid, useless emotions. 

He briefly pictured himself breaking into the studio and ripping apart every last picture. Striding into the house and upending the piano, the chessboard, wrenching all the books off the shelves and tearing them into pieces. Stalking up the stairs, as he had once before, but instead of speaking softly and begging for advice and waiting for instruction, he’d let himself yell and cry and scream and demand to know exactly, _exactly_ , how, if Carl thought Markus was real, was alive, was _his son_ , how the hell he’d gone to sleep every night knowing he was also enslaving him. Knowing that he fed off of Markus’s strength, his otherness, like a parasite. “Did you honestly think it was okay?” he wanted to scream. “Just so long as you weren’t intentionally cruel, just so long as my cage was a beautiful one? Did you think you were doing me a favor!? You could have freed me, you could have helped me, you could have taken out my LED and given me new clothes and made me your _actual son_ instead of some magical cardboard cutout of a person you could fawn over to replace your own shitty kid.” He wanted to take the old man by the shoulders and shake him until something satisfying fell out, some explanation, some excuse, some random grouping of words that would make sense, would make it okay, which would let Markus feel like he didn’t have to hate himself for still loving him.

_“Nothing like love to make a man feel miserable.”_

But he didn’t. Instead, he fled into the deepening dark of twilight. 

If a lone processor picked up someone following him through the shadows, he ignored it. 

\---

He hadn’t been here in a while. Jericho was gone, but the ledge was not, and Markus swung his mechanized legs over the edge, letting himself feel the freedom of having nothing at all below.

Behind him, something moved in the darkness. 

“You were following me?” Markus asked, though the answer was obvious. 

“Yes.” 

Markus opened his mouth to speak but realized he had nothing to say.

He felt the metal vibrate as Connor walked out to meet him. Connor didn’t say anything either. He just sat down behind Markus, far enough away that they weren’t touching, but close enough that this status could change if they wanted it to. 

Markus still wanted to be angry, but instead he just felt numb. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the damn fish, he did, but... It was hard to prioritize their earlier fight. It felt like a million years ago, after... after Carl’s house. “Did you follow me there?” 

“Yes.” 

Markus took in a shaky breath. Felt water on his cheeks. 

Crying, he realized. He was crying. 

“What did you think?” It was a broad question. Covered all manner of sins. 

Connor took his time responding. “I thought the art looked... interesting.” 

Markus laughed. It was free and loud and echoed. “You have no idea how grateful I am right now for your total inability to appreciate anything creative.” 

He didn’t turn around, but he felt Connor’s smile. “It’s... growing on me. Slowly,” he amended. “Very slowly.” 

Markus gripped the metal between his knees. “I’m sorry I ran away. That was... childish.” He spat the word bitterly. It was the truth, and the truth was that his own behavior had been beneath him. 

“Yes.” 

Markus _hmphed_ , but leaned back and let himself rest against Connor. “I think you might need to work on this whole ‘making up’ thing.” 

“I think we both do.” Markus couldn’t argue. Gently, Connor reached up and pulled off the hat and glasses Markus hadn’t bothered to remove. A flimsy disguise at best. “Only if you promise not to run away again.” Connor’s voice was shaky and full of pain. “Unless... Unless you mean it.” 

Markus leaned up and turned around. “You thought I was... leaving you?” he asked with incredulity. 

Connor shrugged and didn’t meet his eyes. “The statistical probably was low. But not impossible.” 

Markus slid around so they were face to face. It was so inhuman, the ability to do this, to sit here, to twist around on a narrow metal beam hundreds of feet in the air without effort. It made Markus feel safe. No humans could get to them. No one here but himself and Connor. 

“Baby, no,” he whispered, sliding his hands around Connor’s face and bringing their foreheads together. “Never. Never, never, never.” 

They held there for a moment. Just the two of them, together. Just stillness. Connor pulled away first and brushed his own hands over Markus’s face. Brushed away the tear streaks. 

“Can you tell me? Why you were upset? Why it made you run away to Carl’s?”

Markus shook his head, but he didn’t mean “no.” He just meant... he didn’t know how to... He sighed. “Honestly, I’m not sure it’s really that important.” He laughed, shallow and self-deprecating. “It’s... It’s fucking stupid, and it shouldn’t even bother me. It never used to bother me.” 

Connor grasped his own upper arms. It was what humans did when they were cold, and although androids did it for the same reason, it was harder for temperature to affect them the same way. 

Connor wasn’t cold. 

“Sometimes I imagine that... that everyone will eventually leave.” His voice was huskier than normal. “Or that they’ll make me leave. It’s not true. It’s the opposite of true. But I can’t help considering it as a possibility, when things go wrong. Constantly recalculating the odds.” 

“Connor,” Markus said sharply, “everyone _loves_ you. _I_ love you. You take care of people, and you’re thoughtful, and kind. You’re smart and funny. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t look like a dork in their CyberLife outfit. Hell, I don’t even understand how it’s possible you can look so good in so many different kinds of outfits, period.” 

“I fear that this is getting off-topic,” Connor objected, but Markus could tell he was pleased. 

“Even if you didn’t have me, which will _never_ happen... I don’t understand. There are so many people who think the world of you. Why _in the world_ would you think that people wouldn’t want you around, all the time?” 

Connor shrugged easily, but his hands had fallen back to his sides. “I think it started when I met the Lieutenant. He didn’t always want me around, and not in the same way most other people were bothered by androids. He seemed to think there was something... flawed about how I approached the cases, how I approached people. It was... intriguing. Honestly, I think the fact that he treated me like an entity with moral agency is what helped put me on the path toward deviancy. But it was also confusing, and disturbing, to know that I was supposed to be this advanced, capable prototype, and yet... according to Hank, I was unsatisfactory at completing basic tasks. Hank... didn’t like me for a long time.” Connor swallowed. “During the investigation, he got so frustrated that he attempted to resign from Homicide. I tried to find him afterwards, after I’d become a deviant, to make amends, but he was drunk, and angry, and threw me out. And then tried to commit suicide.” 

Markus stared. 

“Like I said, he was drunk, so the bullet missed. Luckily, I was able to put in a call to emergency services and get him some help. And Captain Fowler decided to conveniently ‘forget’ that Hank had tried to quit the department.” 

“I don’t know if I like you hanging out with him anymore,” Markus mused, frowning.

“He’s doing much better,” Connor insisted. “He’s involved with an alcohol recovery program and he doesn’t play Russian roulette anymore. And he likes me now.” 

“I guess I expected you to say something about Amanda.” 

Connor leaned back against the metal rod. “Well, of course, there’s always Amanda.” Connor closed his eyes. “You always talk about how you’re a bad leader, how it doesn’t make sense that anyone follows you, but... You were the first person I ever met who seemed to actually want me around. Without motive, without expectation.” He smoothed a single finger across Markus’s brow. “You didn’t want me to be anything but me. You didn’t want me to complete some mission. You let me create one of my own.” 

Markus hadn’t thought of it that way. It made him sound like... like some sort of android saint or something, which made him feel really uncomfortable, so he tried to make light. “Well, that was obviously just a ploy to get into your pants.” 

Connor laughed. 

Markus smiled. Connor laughing was a rare thing, and Markus loved when Connor laughed. 

“Well, RK200, I would say you’ve succeeded in your mission.” He straightened up and his face turned earnest again. “But that’s what you give people, Markus, what you gave all of us.” He took Markus’s hand almost shyly. “But I don’t want you to confuse what you mean to other people with what you mean to me. You don’t have to... to pretend to be strong around me, to always force yourself to be Markus-the-Deviant-Leader. You don’t have to pretend to have it all together.” He frowned. “And you don’t have to run away when something is upsetting you. I want to- to know what hurts you, Markus. I don’t need you to complete a mission. I just want you to be around. I want to know all of you.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Markus breathed, eyes stinging. He looked down at where his own hands gripped Connor’s, so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “I know, I just-”

Connor cut him off. “It’s stupid that I’m afraid of people leaving. Maybe whatever is making you so upset about the fish is ultimately stupid, too. But... I don’t want you to worry about that when you’re with me.” He forced Markus to meet his eyes. Tilted his head, his mouth quirking up at the corners. “I want us to be stupid together.” 

It made Markus laugh, and he swiped at the tears running down his face. “I know. I want that, too. I just...” He grit his teeth. Pictured Carl’s face, himself back in Carl’s house. “I don’t... know if I know how to explain. I don’t even totally understand it myself.” 

Connor peered at him seriously, hesitated. “Is it because the fish tank reminds you of Carl’s studio? With the glass walls?” 

Markus blinked, then sputtered, then burst into peals of laughter. Laughing felt so good after everything else. 

Connor blinked at him, but his LED swirled cool blue. 

“Connor, I don’t even know how to answer that,” he choked. He tried to imagine himself and Carl in the studio, but instead of concrete, the floor was covered in cheap bluish rocks, and fake plastic plants weaved through the space. It would have been so much harder for Carl to paint underwater. The image triggered a fresh bout of chuckling. 

But... it wasn’t a terrible analogy. The studio, the whole house, Markus’s entire life before deviancy? Just one giant fucking fishbowl. 

He leaned forward to rest his head against Connor’s shoulder. “How do you understand me better than I do?” he asked helplessly. 

“Well, I _am_ the state-of-the-art prototype designed by CyberLife. Also, I’m not sure how this could have escaped your attention, but I am, in fact, a detective.”

\---

The discussion over what to do with the fish took days, so they received temporary homes in cheap plastic fish bowls. Markus had, he thought, eloquently advocated on behalf of their rights, drawing parallels from their own plight as androids and Markus’s complicated personal history with Carl, as well as citing several recent studies on fish psychology which called into doubt the idea that fish had only a very low level of consciousness. He also cited sixteen different philosophers, many ancient, some modern, from a diverse range of sources including androids themselves, on what freedom meant and why it was a necessity greater than comfort. 

Connor had agreed surprisingly quickly, even as he did point out a few incontrovertible facts about pets in general, such as the fact that some species were so interwoven with humans (and now, by extension, androids) that it was functionally impossible to separate the two, and that for those species, it was presumptuous to assume that the animals hadn’t specifically adapted to actively benefit from humans’ interest and care, in a symbiotic bond rather than an exploitative one. 

“I’ll admit,” Connor said, “that fish may not fall as easily in that category. So what should we do with them?” 

“We free them, obviously.” 

Connor took in the way Markus was standing, hand clenched, eyes alight. He could have argued that freeing a bunch of fish would be hard, would be complicated, would require time and money and resources to return them to their native habitat so they didn’t destabilize the local ecosystem. He could have pointed out that most people, android and human alike, would probably think they were crazy for even trying, that it would seem like a ludicrous amount of effort for a school of lower vertebrates.

Instead, Connor just looked Markus up and down, and quirked a brow. 

“What?” Markus asked. 

Connor grinned, reached over, and pulled Markus back onto the stupid ugly futon. “Hank would call that statement very ‘on brand.’” Markus tried to retort, but Connor pulled him down and their mouths met, and all Markus’s thoughts fell away. 

Markus was _really_ starting to like the futon. 

They surfaced long enough for him to ask, “Wait. What does Hank say is on brand for you?” 

“For me, the definition is more amorphous. Apparently, Hank thinks that I am frequently ‘a little shit.’” 

“Yeah? No idea where he gets that from,” Markus replied drily. 

Connor pulled away and reclined against the armrest, dark eyes shining. “Am I to infer that it’s a bad time to bring up the benefits of cat ownership?” 

Markus huffed a laugh and dragged Connor back down on top of him. He pressed their palms together. “Maybe later,” he whispered happily.

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow this was incredibly difficult to write; I feel like I've written a 50,000-word novel rather than a <9,000-word story. Speaking of 50,000 words, I'm supposed to be working on my own original project for Camp NaNo but these stupid android boys keep taking over my brain. I solemnly swear not to even think the word "fanfiction" until I've made significant progress on my other projects. Right?? Right...
> 
> I feel like there was really important other stuff I wanted to say in the notes but... my brain is pretty fried. Thank you all for reading!!


End file.
